


with ash in your mouth, you ask for rain

by ellydash



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-01
Updated: 2010-12-01
Packaged: 2017-10-13 11:44:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/136967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellydash/pseuds/ellydash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will's sick. Will dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	with ash in your mouth, you ask for rain

**Author's Note:**

> Set during The Substitute (2x07).

The Nyquil makes Will’s body hum, like there’s a low dosage of electricity enveloping his skin.

He hasn’t been this sick in years, not since the year he and Terri went to Chicago for their third anniversary, when they both came down with the flu and had to forfeit their tickets to the national tour of Dreamgirls (Terri wasn’t that disappointed). He’d forgotten how deep flu ache penetrates into the muscle, how moving just enough to grab a glass of orange juice off the bedside table can catalyze a world of hurt. 

“ _Oww_ ,” he whimpers, out loud, even though there’s no one to hear him. Terri’s gone out for more Nyquil and some popsicles to sooth his throat. Relying on Terri makes Will feel nauseous, although he’s not sure how much of that is the flu and how much of it is the twinkle in his ex-wife’s eyes when she says things like  _look at my poor little boy, so weak and defenseless_. 

Will curls up in a fetal position, his legs protesting at the movement, closes his eyes, and waits for the Nyquil to shut him down. 

He dreams.

  
*

  
He’s flying. 

Not flying, exactly, although he can’t feel the ground beneath his feet. Dancing. He can hear the music off in the distance, somewhere: a pretty piano, a chamber ensemble with voluptuous vibrato, 4/4 time. A foxtrot. 

His arm is on someone’s shoulder; his hand in someone’s hand. He knows who it is without looking: Mike Chang.

“Are you Fred Astaire or Ginger Rogers?” Mike asks him, and he tries to catch a glimpse of his face but can’t; only sees a blurred shock of dark hair. “I want to be Fred.” 

“Ginger had all the sex appeal,” Will says, his feet spinning, the world blurring. He can feel the hard muscle of Mike’s shoulder. 

“Yeah, yeah, she did it backwards and in heels. I know that old chestnut. You know, Mr. Schue, ballroom dancing isn’t really my thing. You should let me do what I’m good at.”

Mike twirls him around, suddenly, and Will’s spiraling, first out, then in. His arms collide with the brick wall of Mike’s chest. “Pop and lock?”

“Among other things,” Mike says, in Will’s ear, and tucks his leg around the back of Will’s, drawing him closer. Will’s staring over Mike’s shoulder, and he thinks he can actually see the high notes shaking off the violins’ fingerboards, little shimmering things floating in the distance. “You have to decide, Mr. Schue. Fred or Ginger?”

Will can’t talk. He’s breathing too hard from the exertion. Mike’s leg slides between his and suddenly Will’s bending backwards, his body arching towards the floor in a graceful bridge. He braces his hands on the laminate, trembling from the strain. 

“Neither,” he manages. “I’m Gene Kelly.” 

Mike curves over him, his body folding onto Will’s with impossible control. 

“No, you’re not.” He’s grinning. His face hovers above Will. “You’re just – ”

  
* 

  
“ – a little sickie, that’s what you are, my sweet sick  _boy_.” Terri’s voice overlaps with Mike’s, and Will’s drawn up and out, back into his bed, through to Terri’s cool, soft hands on his cheeks. “Did you sleep well?”

God, Will’s burning up. “I was,” he says, irritably, “until you woke me.” The sheets push against his back, rasping the sensitive skin like sandpaper. “Please, Terri, just let me rest, okay?”

She stands up, offended. “You know, Will, I certainly don’t have to be here to take care of you. I don’t have to go fetch your medicine or rub your back or fluff your pillows for you. I’m doing this out of the goodness of my heart.”

“I’m sure you are.” He’s already sliding under a wave of drowsiness, his eyelids drooping. “I appreciate it. You know that. I just need to nap.”

“Fine,” she hisses. “I’ll be in the living room, watching our copy of  _National Treasure: Book of Secrets_.”

He tries to say  _I threw that out after you left, I threw out all the Jerry Bruckheimer movies_ , but it’s too much effort, and it seems like a much better idea to give himself over to the rapid swell of sleep.

  
*

  
Will’s standing in front of the glee club, trying to read from a set list, but his eyes won’t focus on the page. He’s wearing sweatpants and nothing else; he’s not sure why he thought this was an appropriate outfit for school. Sue’s going to kill him with wordplay and bureaucratic threats when she sees him, and he probably deserves it.

“Need some help?” Mike asks, and he rises, in the back row. He’s shirtless, too. It’s the only thing Will can see, the contours of Mike’s stomach, the angled planes just north of his hips. 

“I don’t need a dance partner, Mike. Not for this number,” Will tells him, but he doesn’t know to what number he’s referring, and anyway if there’s a dance planned it won’t involve him. He’s the teacher. He’s Mike’s teacher. 

Mike’s in front of him, against him, thigh pressing against thigh. Will’s aware that the others are watching, closely, and he can only imagine what Santana’s going to say about this behind his back.

“It’s not what you need, Mr. Schue. It’s what you want,” Mike murmurs. “I know what you want.”

Will doesn’t move. He can’t. He’s pushed back against the piano. Mike’s leaning over him, his hand pushing down in between their bodies, cupping Will through his pants, and his students are  _right there_ , oh, Jesus, he’s getting hard right in front of his  _students_.

“Look at you.” Mike’s speaking right against Will’s neck, drawing a line with his tongue just below Will’s jaw. Will bucks against him suddenly at the contact. “You can’t stop yourself, can you? You’re so desperate for it, you’d bend over for me right here, wouldn’t you? Right in front of everyone.”

 _No_ , Will wants to object,  _I wouldn’t, I’m not like that_ , but Mike grinds his hand against Will's cock, the heel of his palm perfect, excruciating pressure, and Will’s protest slides into a groan, low and thick in his throat. 

“Wanna dance, Mr. Schue?” Mike asks, sweetly.

  
*

  
“Will?” It’s Terri’s voice, from the living room. “Is everything all right? You’re making weird noises.”

He’s shaking, drenched in sweat. 

“Yeah,” he manages. 

“Well, be quiet, then. I’m trying to watch  _Animal Hoarders_  and you’re distracting me.” 

Will reaches one hand below the clammy sheets, inside his boxers, and hisses at the feedback of palm to hard cock, skin alarmingly sensitive, the thrum of blood beneath the surface as he wraps his fingers around it, lightly.

“ _Ah_ ,” he whimpers, very quietly. 

He doesn’t pump his fist; he can’t. Not enough strength in his weakened, tired arm for that. He moves his fingers, instead, and the friction isn’t enough, nowhere near enough to send him over the edge. 

 _Mike Chang?_  he thinks, through the haze.  _What the hell is wrong with me? He’s my student, for Christ’s sake. My male student. My underage male student._

(wanna dance, mr. schue?)

God help him, he does.

  
*

  
“You know,” Mike’s saying, in his ear, “good dancing has rules. So does good sex. They’re pretty much the same thing.”

Will tries to grab at him, but he’s clutching at air. Mike steps away, neatly evading capture. “No,” he chastens. “That’s not how this is gonna go, Mr. Schue. Can I call you that while I fuck you? Mr. Schue, I mean.”

Will can only nod, his mouth dry.

“Good,” Mike says, cheerfully. “Now, you’re gonna do what I say, or else you’ll wake up, and you don’t really want that, do you? No one there but Terri to take care of that thick hard-on.” He gestures to the noticeable distension in Will’s sweatpants. Will, breathing heavily, cups himself, sliding a shaking thumb over his cock. 

They’re back in the music room, only the rest of the glee club’s gone, and Will’s aware enough to feel grateful that some part of his fucked-up psyche didn’t want his students in the background for this. “What do you want me to do?” he asks, still stroking himself, unable to stop despite the flush of shame rising up his neck. “I’ll do whatever you want. Just – just don’t make me wait for it. Please. It’s been a long time.” 

Mike grins, and then he’s pulling Will against him, kissing his mouth, tugging at Will’s ear with his teeth. Will gasps, rocking against Mike, and the room tilts on its side, dragging them down with it, hitting the floor. Mike’s panting, unbuckling his jeans, pushing them off his hips, rising to his knees, yanking Will’s head onto his cock. “Suck me,” he commands, and Will moans, obeys. He’s still halfway prone on the ground, supporting himself on his forearms, back curved down, his stomach and thighs pressing against the cheap laminate flooring, knees bent. Mike grabs for Will’s feet, and holding tightly, tugs them towards Will’s bobbing head, bending him into a U-shape, the increased leverage thrusting his cock deeper into Will’s mouth. 

Somewhere in the distance, Will hears Rod Stewart singing.  _You'd be a fool to stop this tide/Spread your wings and let me come inside._

“Prince would’ve been a much better choice for a soundtrack,” Mike comments, “but, hey, not my dream,” and he grabs Will’s hair, pulls him up. “Go lean against the piano. You have lube in your messenger bag, don’t you?”

Will means to answer “Of course not,” because he doesn’t; why would he bring lube to school? It comes out “How did you know?” instead, his voice trembling. He pushes against the side of the piano, looking for friction, for pressure, for something to mute the raw edges of need. Nothing’s working. Mike rummages through Will’s bag, emerging triumphant with a small plastic bottle. 

“I know,” Mike tells him, “because I know you, Mr. Schue. We all know you. You think you hide it really well, don’t you? You think we can’t tell how much you want it, how you’d take it from anyone who’d care enough to touch you? How you walk around the hallways half hard, trying not to look too closely at anyone so you don’t freak yourself out too much about  _boundaries_ and _appropriate behavior_? Of  _course_ you carry lube with you.”

Will knows he should be cowing with humiliation at this, but he isn't. His cock twitches at Mike’s words, his breath a ragged sob in his throat. 

The sweatpants are yanked down, and then Mike’s wet fingers are pushing into him, first one digit, than another, stretching him, saving him. It’s incredible, the sensation of being filled after being empty for so long, and Will ruts back against Mike’s hand, he’s moaning, saying  _not enough, not enough, I need more_. 

He hears the snap of a condom, and then oh, dear God, he’s got all the  _more_ he could ever want, the burn of it eating at him like the punishment he knows he deserves. Will’s mouth opens and closes, working soundless, hands braced on the piano cover, and Mike drives into him, slowly, slowly, slowly. Will’s dimly aware that Mike’s right leg is elevated, completely upright, pinned straight against Will’s back, his foot hovering over Will’s shoulder. Mike’s doing the vertical splits against Will’s back while fucking him, and Will isn’t sure if that’s even possible. He knows Mike’s flexible, but  _Christ_ –

It doesn’t take more than a minute. When he comes, stuttering and shaking against the piano, it’s without the help of Mike’s hand. The shame of all this is better, more triggering, than any reacharound. Behind him, Mike gasps his name, moves faster, spills into him, and they fold over the top of the piano in a crude impression of a bow. 

Will thinks he hears applause.

“How did you know, Mike?” he asks, again, breathless, only this time the question isn’t about lube. “How did you know what I needed?”

There’s a hand on his abdomen and another cupping the back of his neck. Mike folds his leg, and lowers it to the ground, gracefully. 

“I think you know the answer to that,” he says. “It’s time to wake up now.”

  
*

  
He deliberately spills the orange juice on the bed, on himself, so Terri won’t see the tracks of come on his lower belly or the sheets. She clucks at him, and tells him he was always clumsy. Will knows she’s happy to have a chance to remind him of one of his failures. 

Later, after he’s cleaned up and the bedding’s been remade, she’s rubbing his back. When she kisses his aching skin, he turns his head to meet Terri’s and covers her mouth with his. 

 _I knew what I needed_ , he thinks, but the implications of what lies behind that knowing makes his stomach turn, and so he stops thinking. 

One hand strokes Terri’s abdomen. The other cups the back of her neck.


End file.
